PART TWO

The faded pink walls of Claire’s bedroom had become as familiar to Envy as those of her own. With a keen eye, she could trace every faint discolouration where posters had come and gone, the adhesives leaving behind a constellation of darkened grease spots. They had gone unchanged just as the colour had, a stubborn reminder of the weekend Claire’s mum had spent painting it for her during her self-proclaimed ‘Princess Phase’. Claire had become too attached to change it.

Together, the girls had whiled away hours and days surrounded by those pink walls, slouched on bean bags to watch television with biscuits and squash, making up ill-fitting dance moves to tracks neither of them had any particular fondness for, and – along with Havannah – sharing their biggest secrets with each other. Except Envy never quite played the game right, dancing around her own candid contributions for fear of displeasing anybody. Especially Claire.

Over time, dance moves became pre-drinks, afternoon cartoons became horror movies, and sleepovers filled with hushed chatting and giggling became nights spent sneaking into Foxy’s.

Without Havannah, though, the room felt emptier; without Claire’s mum occasionally peeking her head around the door, that emptiness had extended to the whole house. Sometimes, Envy wondered if Claire only asked her to stay over so she’d have one more person to flesh out the empty, echoing vessel she inhabited day-to-day. Without hesitating, she would say yes and pack a bag, even though she knew they would likely sit in silence, or Claire would flick through magazines while Envy slumped awkwardly into the bean bag she had commandeered closest to the door.

Envy lay wide awake on the floor, memory after memory racing around the room and her mind. A sadness blossomed in her chest, nourished by air thick with hairspray, the belching odour of alcohol, and trapped heat. The end of these days was fast approaching. What Envy considered to be their ‘Golden Days’ were already behind them when the fall out with Havannah happened, and now university loomed large to finish off what was left.

A year deferred to keep Claire company had flown by so fast, and now it ran the risk of extending indefinitely.

Claire had no ambition to go to university – or if she did, she had never expressed it to Envy. Her A-Levels and their town and that bedroom were all good enough for her, and she was happy to live a life within those confines.

Regardless, guilt had taken root in Envy’s gut the last few weeks. After summer, she would have to go. How would her friend cope alone once she realised that she was only holding onto what was closest, rather than what was best? It was a question that Envy had continuously pushed down, and she did it once again, rolling onto her side under the spare musty single duvet Claire kept in the bottom of the wardrobe for her.

The hangover moved with Envy, a lodged tumbleweed spinning in her stomach. When lying there did little more for her, she reached for her phone to scroll through social media. Her thumb strokes against the screen were almost perfectly timed to Claire’s muffled snores from the bed, where her face was buried in a pillow.

Outside, the seagulls were screeching from a neighbour’s rooftop, a jarring sound so early in the morning. Envy sighed restlessly, checked the time, and decided to slip away from her makeshift bed before the morning felt any more claustrophobic.

Downstairs, Kristi was leaning against the kitchen island, texting with frantic fingers. Her face remained stony still as she typed out a message, her tone and emotion a mystery to anybody watching. It only shifted when Kristi realised she had company.

“Morning,” Envy croaked as she tip-toed down the stairs and into the open living space. Kristi smiled in return, fingers still working by themselves.

Sunlight brightened the kitchen through patio doors, while the far side of the room – the side where the sisters occasionally sat on a sofa each and watched TV together in near-silence – was still murky where the blinds had yet to be opened.

“You sound rough,” Kristi laughed. She had finished with her phone, setting it screen-down on the counter, and her forehead crinkled from her amused look.

“Yeah…” Envy said, adjusting her glasses and the wild tangle of her dark hair. “You have to be drunk to deal with those two being gross on the dancefloor all night.”

Kristi poured some milk into a fresh cup of coffee and slid it across the kitchen island, where Envy had taken up a stool.

“I feel like your personal bartender,” Kristi joked, drily.

“Please tell me you’ve put something extra in this drink too then,” Envy countered, her memory of how many free drinks Kristi had served her the previous night cloudy at best.

“Just coffee and milk. Sorry, champ.” Envy drank it gratefully, regardless.

Turning back to the counter, Kristi finished preparing some breakfast just out of sight, and Envy half-hoped it was for her. Of course, it was. Kristi always made Envy breakfast when she slept over, but the younger of the two was always nervous about assuming. Kristi presented the bowl – porridge with sliced bananas and a generous dollop of peanut butter – and stuck a spoon into the mixture.

“Eat up. You’ve got work today, right?”

“Yeah,” Envy groaned. “Who’s going to buy souvenirs this early though, right?”

She began to delicately spoon the porridge into her mouth, feeling the sweet heat tumble down into her stomach. The warming sensation was pleasant – welcoming – and with each spoonful, Envy increased her pace.

“Did you get into much trouble last night? You know…the thing with Havannah?” she asked between mouthfuls.

All at once, Kristi seemed to stiffen and drift from Envy. She poured her own coffee out into the sink and rinsed the mug, shaking her wet hands and wiping them on a towel. It was all to buy herself some time. Maybe she’d learnt something from Damon after all.

“It’s all good. It’s sorted. Just have to hope she doesn’t come back.”

“I didn’t see her dad arrive. If I had I would never have suggested the drink,” Envy confessed, setting her spoon down in the near-empty bowl. Kristi dismissed the suggestion with a shake of her head.

“Don’t be silly. Not your fault. You shouldn’t have to babysit me every time I see her. I just…lose control.”

“I know. I get it. But don’t get into trouble over it, will you?”

Envy didn’t wait for Kristi’s acknowledgement, instead returning to her breakfast, gathering the last of the porridge onto her spoon. A satisfied sigh followed the last bite. Kristi took the bowl away and started running the tap.

“You’d be a good big sister to someone, you know,” Kristi said over the sound of water crashing against the metal sink. “But I’ll always think of you as my other little sister.”

“Thanks, Kristi,” Envy smiled, unsure if it was Kristi’s words or the warm porridge which had made the glow rise inside of her. The hangover had been dulled.

“No problem. Now fuck off and get to work before you get into trouble.” Kristi turned her head back and winked. Envy fake-saluted and rushed back upstairs to get ready.

Out of sight, Kristi’s face dropped. She finished washing the bowl and left it on the drying rack, reaching for her phone instead. There was no reply to her daily enquiry, though there was still time.

Once again, she was interrupted by Envy, who had returned fully dressed with a bag slung over one shoulder, though her hair was still a messy tangle.

“Will we see you later?” Kristi asked, forcing something resembling a smile back onto her face as Envy rushed for the front door. She turned back briefly, fingers on the handle, and declared, “Afraid not! I have a date!”

Before Kristi could ask anything more, Envy was gone – already bounding down the street to make it home in time for a shower before work.

“Strange girl,” Kristi said aloud to herself, if only to play down the sisterly joy – and curiosity – she held on Envy’s behalf.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, as it did most mornings, and Kristi snatched it quickly into her hands. It was still bad news. It was then, because her expression soured and her face relaxed in disappointment, that Kristi noticed she’d been smiling to herself.

***

Sabine lived in the next town over. She was an Aries, had a tattoo under her ear, and a nose ring. Her hair was turquoise, except for the roots which she dyed black on purpose – to ‘reclaim that liminal space between hair colours’, she had told Envy during one of their texting marathons, though Envy wasn’t entirely sure if she’d used the term ‘liminal space’ correctly. She didn’t argue it, however; Sabine was already too cool for Envy.

They had met for the first time in spring, though had messaged frequently since the previous summer after encountering one another on social media. They had, it transpired, been to the same gig, and Envy liked the photos Sabine had managed to take of the frantic frontman as he screamed into the mic. Sabine had liked the attention she received; it took her six weeks to follow Envy back.

Eventually, the spring meeting came around, with Envy venturing on the bus to see Sabine. During the hour-long journey – lengthened by the many stops and the endless parade of elderly characters who embarked and disembarked each time – Envy had gushed about Sabine to no fewer than three of the people who had taken the seat beside her. Each time they were replaced with somebody new, she relished the chance to recycle the whole tale all over again, refining it into the promising start of a grand love story yet-to-be.

Reality, however, has a way of clawing at our fantasies; after stepping off the bus, Envy quickly learnt how harsh this lesson could be.

What was most intimidating about Sabine wasn’t her towering stature, exacerbated by thick-soled boots, but rather her own self-awareness. In Envy’s eyes, Sabine knew herself in ways Envy would never be able to replicate. The turquoise-haired girl already had a complete picture of herself and lived with total certainty as to who she was. Her makeup was flawless, her hair vibrant and healthy despite the dye, and her outfits were thoughtfully curated and perfectly paired. Envy, on the other hand, had worn her favourite black and white chequered long-sleeve shirt under a tee emblazoned with the band’s logo, all in an attempt to recapture their shared experience and connect it to their newfound friendship. Comparing herself to Sabine made her immediately self-conscious, and the feeling only grew as they walked from the bus stop, Sabine leading the conversation with ideas and thoughts she deemed to be all together more interesting than anything Envy might contribute.

As the day went on, Envy continued to let Sabine lead the way, talking at length about her projects and ambitions and her friends who had all smoked weed since they were thirteen because there was little else to do in their town. She painted a picture of creative, tortured young people, who were all terribly misunderstood and desperately needed a life in the city to free them. Envy had nodded and made quiet agreement, imagining how oppressed they could really be with a cinema, a frequent rail link, and two shopping centres within walking distance.

“I mean, it could be worse,” Sabine had said, as if hearing Envy’s thoughts. It had taken Envy a moment to realise that Sabine was looking down at her from the corner of her eyes; a response was expected.

“Yeah…I guess.”

“Yeah. Right? Because you have that crappy pier and all those tourists and the gypsies over in Clayham.”

“We don’t have gypsies,” Envy countered, an automatic reflex.

“Fine, travellers or whatever. The Carnies.” Sabine laughed in a high-pitched shriek, and Envy realised she’d wasted many afternoons imagining the sensation of Sabine’s hand in hers, leading her to somewhere romantic where they could be alone; that Sabine was not the same as the one laughing as they walked. Her stomach curdled and a gloomy cloud soured the rest of the afternoon.

Rather than leave, Envy allowed herself to continue trailing by Sabine’s side in almost total silence for another hour, stopping only to look in shop windows or get a third coffee. The ordeal had finally come to an end at the bus stop, where Sabine surprised Envy with a kiss on her cheek before rushing off to some other engagement. Envy was left to wait for the bus alone.

Since then, things had changed. At first, the disastrous meeting had played on Envy’s mind, and she quietly muted Sabine online. Sometimes, she would reply in short bursts when her resolve had broken down, only to later leave her phone on silent by the side of the bed. If she checked later, there would always be the hope of another reply to feed her some scrap of dopamine, but Sabine would go quiet herself, content in making Envy submit.

Eventually, the text Envy was waiting for had arrived. An apology. A rambling, nonsensical apology about how Sabine wasn’t a racist – ask any of her friends – and how she thought she had ADHD and let her rambling mouth get the better of her. The smart part of Envy’s brain disengaged at that point, all too aware that its owner would be able to manage the mental gymnastics needed to forgive all by herself.

At night, she ruminated over the text, connecting the dots and weighing the plausibility of Sabine’s excuses. The conclusion she came to was that Sabine deserved a second chance – if she came to see Envy this time. Miraculously, Sabine had agreed, and Envy had been happily sitting on the secret ever since for fear that to tell anybody would spoil a fragile, hopeful possibility.

It would also mean that she would need to tell Claire about Sabine. Even their first meeting and all the mindless texting had been conducted beneath Claire’s radar, in direct contravention of their friendship’s supposed candour.

Either way, to say the secret aloud seemed like a betrayal – of her best friend, and of Envy’s desire to cultivate her own small happiness.

And so, she said nothing.

The souvenir shop sat squat along the seafront, sandwiched between a jazz café that stayed in business thanks only to the bored youngsters who formed bands – none of which were jazz-related – and the parents and friends who had no choice but to support them, and a small gallery that never seemed to be open at all.

On her morning walk into work, Envy would sometimes peer into the gallery to see if any of the paintings had changed since she’d started the job eighteen months prior. They never had. In fact, she swore she could see the sun bleaching the poorly hung canvasses in real-time. Then, inexplicably, there’d be a day when it was open, the occasional tourist couple wandering in to talk to the friendly woman in a long, brown cardigan who worked there.

“Where do you go?” Envy asked aloud once from the other side of the window, pondering the woman’s ethereal nature.

When the days were slow, she would think about the woman next door. Did she live comfortably on a small fortune, only opening the gallery when she really, truly felt like it? Did she spend the rest of her time reading excellent books, drinking great wine, having interesting adventures with beautiful people? Or did she simply live with a bunch of cats who chewed the corners of the manuscript she’d been writing for thirty-odd years? Envy would never know.

On that day, her ponderings were interrupted by the chime of the bell above the shop’s door. It had become an unfamiliar sound to her throughout winter and spring, when customers usually consisted of foreign tourists who’d caught Britain at a bad time, or locals clumsily buying ill-thought-out gifts for loved ones abroad. How it hadn’t crossed their minds that nobody wanted a snow globe of a pier they’d never visited baffled Envy.

She looked up from the magazine she’d leafed through a half-dozen times already that week and stood up straight when she clocked her visitors.

“Oh. Hi,” Envy said, uncomfortably.

Havannah gave her a meek wave and pursed her lips together as she smiled awkwardly. Behind her, a young man followed. One customer at a time was a rarity, but two seemed suspicious.

“Ha, look at this,” Ronan said, his attention ensnared by the novelty mugs in the shape of a distorted, fat version of the pier.

“I’ll be back in a second,” Havannah said, leaving Ronan to gawk at the novelties. She approached the till.

“Look, I’m really sorry about last night,” Envy said first, the words tumbling out even though she knew she didn’t have anything to apologise for. Havannah cut her off with a shake of her head.

“Forget it. You’re literally the only one who doesn’t treat me like shit, so I appreciate it but there’s no need.” Envy frowned sympathetically. It was true. There was little Envy could do to remedy it.

Havannah glanced down at the glass counter, avoiding Envy’s gaze. Her finger delicately traced the metallic border around the glass, as she continued to speak.

“Last night made me realise how little people appreciate the fact that I lost a mother too in that accident – not just Claire and Kristi. And now – now it feels like there are so many places I can’t go anymore.”

Envy’s eyes darted to watch Ronan as he sniggered at some of the adult novelty souvenirs – none of which were anatomically correct, Envy was sure. Havannah looked over at him too, and then turned her head back to face Envy, seriousness in the tightness of her lips.

“The real kicker is that I grew up being told my dad owned half the town – and I can’t even go to that half it seems. I guess what I’m getting at is…well, tell Kristi I’m sorry. And if she ever wants to settle this – bury the hatchet or whatever – then I’m ready to do the same.”

“I’ll tell her,” Envy replied, touching her hand to Havannah’s. “I’m sorry you’re even in this situation.”

“Don’t be. We put ourselves in it, and we need to get ourselves out. Together.”

Envy stepped out from behind the counter and opened her arms for an embrace. Havannah paused, and then took the offer, clutching Envy hesitantly. The familiarity was comforting.

“Sorry to interrupt, but this isn’t what a cock looks like,” Ronan said, thrusting a novelty lollipop between the girls. “Trust me, I’ve got one.”

Envy and Havannah stepped apart, only a little awkward laughter from each of them.

“Can’t blame me for trying to break the tension,” he murmured, inspecting the sugar-coated lollipop from different angles, trying to make it make sense. “Anyway, we need to be going. I was promised lunch.”

Envy raised an eyebrow at Havannah, who simply replied with a firm don’t mouthed in silence.

“Are you going to buy that?” Envy asked, half joking as she pointed at the cock-pop.

“Why not?” Ronan said.

“That’s three ninety-nine, please,” she replied, ringing the purchase up on the till.

“Wow. You seaside towns are expensive. I always forget.”

“It’s the only way to stay afloat. Pricey genital-themed souvenirs,” Envy remarked, taking Ronan’s money from him.

“I like her,” he said to Havannah, stuffing the cock-pop into his back pocket and heading for the door. Havannah followed, both enamoured and amused by his confidence.

“Have fun you two,” Envy called after them.

For a moment, things had felt like the old days – Havannah speaking her mind, followed by handsome boys, and Envy was left with a bittersweet smile on her face watching her old friend vanish down the street, pointing out the ghostly gallery to Ronan as they passed.

The rest of the day seemed to crawl by, a cruel trick played by time. The shop only saw a handful of customers enter after Havannah and Ronan’s brief stop, and Envy spent the hours alone adjusting the shelves and mindlessly scrolling through social media.

As the afternoon crept on, the monotony – and Envy’s scrolling – was disturbed by a call. It was Sabine. Trying not to sound too enthusiastic, Envy let the call linger for a few beats before finally answering.

“Hello?”

“Hi? Envy?”

There was a raucous noise in the background, and she could imagine Sabine shouting into the phone with one finger in her ear. Envy put her on loudspeaker.

“What’s up?”

“Look, sorry to do this at such short notice, but I’m going to have to rain check our little get-together later. Something really fun came up with some friends, and I want to see how it plays out. I’m sure you understand.”

Sabine’s voice – and the excitable din behind her – echoed around the empty shop. Envy scanned the space with its crowded shelves, pointless merchandise, and dusty interior and found that no, she couldn’t understand – mainly because she was enveloped in boredom, all alone.

“Sure. Shall we rearrange?” she asked, voice trembling with disappointment. Envy leaned her elbow against the counter, resting her head against her palm. She already knew the answer, had heard this line before, could detect the apathy in Sabine’s voice. The difference between Sabine and all the others, however, was that the others had at least tried to be gentle.

“Let’s not. Is that, OK? But good luck and everything. With university and the café.”

“It’s a shop...” Envy tried to say, though her words were muffled by building tears and the sound of Sabine having a good time without her.

“Great! Bye!”

Envy could hear Sabine whooping before the call ended and could easily imagine her merging back into a crowd of faceless people all swarming about the same trends and fashions and thoughts. They weren’t oppressed, they were boring.

The bitterness didn’t make her feel any better, so she tried dusting the snow globes again. Nobody would see her cry – not all alone in that little shop along the seafront, among its novelties and its tat. Still, she bit back the tears and got to work, blaming the dust every time she sniffled.

The joy of summer was that it was still a beautiful, bright day by the time Envy closed the shop at five-thirty. On busier afternoons, they would stay open until the crowds thinned and stopped spending, grateful for the bountiful footfall, an oasis in the desert ready to dry up at any moment.

Tomorrow, the owner’s son would be working, taking Envy’s place behind the till, following the same bored motions, tracing the same worn steps. They had only ever met once or twice, but she often felt like they lived parallel lives in the same space, ghosts haunting the same room at different times – or maybe at the same time, just out of sight from one another. The thought depressed Envy.

She turned the key in the door and felt the stifling heat pressing against her skin. At least the shop had air conditioning.

Sabine’s call had been something of a blessing, though Envy hadn’t necessarily made peace with that fact just yet. Without anything to look forward to except wallowing in her own misery, time had seemingly sped up, with the rest of the day’s shift rushing past her. Now she was outside and free, however, Envy missed the forward momentum that had propelled her through the day thus far. A languishing, warm evening stretched indefinitely ahead instead.

The disappointment sat heavy in her chest, and after lingering by the stone wall that separated the street from the descent to the beach, Envy decided that the only place she really wanted to be at that very moment was with her best friend. She slung her backpack over one shoulder and trudged to the nearest bus stop, each sticky movement through the thick air a struggle.

The bus stop was situated just as the road hugging the shoreline started to curve upwards, leading to the town centre and beyond. In the off-season, the bus stop was witness to the cold fog rolling in from the void where the sea could usually be found. During those months, it was quiet and the locals who used the bus route knew better than to sit on the slanted plastic benches for fear of the slick wet surface, barely protected by the too-short shelter up above. In the summer, the bench was full, and passengers fanned themselves impatiently as they swarmed the bus stop, waiting to be carried the short distance up the hill for fear of collapsing in the heat.

As Envy approached, she noted that the crowd was thinner than usual for the time of year, though it was hardly surprising. The previous summer’s weather had seen tourists turn away from visiting, and the usual winter lull had dulled the locals’ optimism for a return to form.

Leaning against the shelter, one earbud being twirled between her index finger and thumb, Envy listened in to the gaggle of voices. One family, from what she could tell, thought they had outwitted other holiday goers with their early arrival; two old ladies, both permed and wearing matching loose blouses stitched with flowers, were bemoaning how things had changed. Envy had heard all these conversations before, spoken by different people in the same way. There was nothing new to listen to.

With sweet relief, the bus arrived, and the mismatched collective of passengers – the family, the ladies, a pair of teenaged boys, and a young woman – all piled onto the bus, glad to be moving forward and upward without any effort on their part.

“Oh, Envy. I didn’t think you were coming round,” Kristi said as she opened the door to her sister's dishevelled friend, absent-mindedly tying her hair into the usual tight ponytail she wore for work. Envy’s face was reddened. She was sweating and defeated, and needed to catch her breath.

“Change of plans. Is it OK if I come in?”

“Sure,” Kristi said, stepping aside with one hand on the door to let Envy past.

Although the patio doors were open, the air inside felt similarly close and humid. There was seemingly no escape from it.

Kristi closed the door, noticing the ominously dark cloud that had stalked Envy during the short bus ride. It had been creeping upon them to catch everybody off-guard, but now it had lost the element of surprise. She adjusted her ponytail and rooted around in the wooden unit by the door for an umbrella.

“What happened to your hot date?”

Envy slumped into the same kitchen stool she’d clambered out of earlier that day. Her cheek scrunched up as it pressed against folded arms, and she sighed.

“It cooled off, I guess.”

Kristi retrieved the umbrella, leaving it on the surface of the unit, and headed to the fridge. She pulled out a cold bottle of cider, opened it with skill against the worktop, and placed it in front of Envy, as a mother might put some comforting meal in front of their child after a particularly bad day.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked, closing the patio door in preparation for the rain.

Envy – still slouched against the island counter – wrapped her fingers around the bottle and pressed it to her cheek. The glass had a cold sheen to it, which felt pleasant against her skin. In her ear, the cider sang a fizzing chorus. She moved the bottle to her lips and took a swig, leaving the lingering cold kiss against her cheek to fade.

“No, I think I’m OK. But thanks.”

“Good, because I have work,” Kristi said, walking round to Envy’s side of the island. She kissed her sister’s friend on the side of her head and said, “You’ll find someone worthy. Promise.”

“Thanks, Kristi.”

“Don’t mention it. Oh, and good luck,” she added, grabbing her bag from one of the sofas and checking her keys were inside.

“Don’t forget your phone,” Envy mentioned, stretching across the counter for it so she could offer it out to Kristi. “Why good luck?” she asked as Kristi took the phone and dumped it in her bag.

“Victor was here. Claire was crying. Big blow-up and I don’t get involved,” Kristi answered, rushing to get her shoes on. “No more questions, got to go. See you later.” She blew a kiss and was gone before Envy could react. She had left the umbrella behind.

Envy reasoned that if Claire was still crying, she would need her best friend; if she was crying about Victor, then Envy would need to finish the cider first to cope with re-treading the same conversation once again.

Her intention was to take her time, but the sound of the door slamming behind Kristi had seemingly signalled for Claire to erupt into fresh tears, the noise travelling downstairs like a roiling waterfall, muddied by the unspoken strain Victor put on the pair’s friendship.

Envy was tired. Still, she gulped the cider down to comfort her friend sooner – though she purposely took the extra time to rinse the bottle before dumping it into the recycling bin, a small act of defiance in a tug-of-war she had little pull in.

At the foot of the stairs, she called up to alert Claire to her impending arrival and started the climb by practising her sympathetic face. Outside Claire’s door, she took one final chance to dredge up some fleeting patience, inhaled deeply, and entered the bedroom.

In true Claire fashion, she was rolled up in her duvet, sobbing into the soft shelter she had created for herself. The room was stuffy, the window still closed as it had been all day, and the faint stench of alcohol still lingered all around them.

“Go away! Leave me alone!” Claire sobbed, only to change her tone when Envy made a move to close the door. The same squeaky floorboard they had often avoided during sleepovers had given her away. “Wait! Don’t go!”

She unfurled the duvet and sat up, expecting to see Envy gone. Her friend had, however, become accustomed to Claire’s moments of flighty self-pity and was now sitting on the edge of the bed. On her face was an expression that Claire mistook as one of infinite patience. She smiled, pathetically, her face miraculously dry – though not for lack of trying.

“What happened?” Envy asked, trying to keep the sharpness out of her voice. What she really wanted to say was ‘what happened this time?’, or even ‘why do you keep doing this to yourself?’

“Victor shouted at me. He said I was an embarrassment last night, and…and…did you just roll your eyes?” Claire asked, suddenly losing the theatrical wobble from her voice, and sitting up taller. Envy’s eyes widened and she looked sheepishly at Claire.

“I didn’t…”

“You fucking rolled your eyes! Admit it!”

Envy sighed once again and got to her feet. She brought her shoulders up to her ears, exhaled, and let them relax.

“How many times are we going to go come back here?”

“Excuse me?”

“Victor treats you like shit,” Envy started, catching the wobble in her own voice now. Her fists tightened in an attempt to anchor her, but a breathless anxiety had already started to expand into her limbs. “He treats you like shit, but you keep going back to him. Why? What’s the point? What do you aim to achieve here?”

The pointed fury that might have exploded from Claire stayed just out of sight, though her eyes narrowed to the same sharpness.

“I can’t believe you’d be so cruel,” she said, bitterly.

“I’m not being cruel, Claire. I don’t mean to be cruel,” Envy replied, fists loosened and arms crossed in a further effort to calm her navigation of a conversation that had long been brewing. She had rehearsed a hundred times before – in the shower, in the mirror, during long days in the shop.

Claire didn’t rise to it. She simply pulled the duvet back around herself, rolled onto her front, and commanded Envy to go away.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Envy said, exasperated and barely able to breathe. She started for the door, stopping as it swung open. She looked back at Claire, motionless beneath the mound of duvet. “Just for the record…there were things I wanted to talk to you about today. That’s why I came over – because I needed my best friend. But there’s never space for that – for me – because of Victor. It’s like he takes all the air out of the room, even when he’s not here. And you just keep making the same mistakes over and over. I can’t help you, Claire.”

The duvet shifted and Claire unveiled herself once more. She looked sat now, sitting up and looking not directly at Envy, but as close as she could manoeuvre her gaze.

“He’s the only constant I have left.”

“Bullshit!” Envy snapped. “I’m here. Kristi’s here – and you would’ve had Havannah too if you’d spoken up at the time. I’m done with all this, Claire. I’m going home.”

“Wait!” Claire cried with an outstretched arm. The door had already slammed shut and she was left by herself. The pink walls seemed closer – and more oppressive – than ever before.

***

When Victor was twelve years old, he threw his first punch – the first thrown not in jest or sportsmanship, but in anger. The other boy had made some comment about his mother being Russian and unwelcome, and Victor’s fist had found its way to the boy’s face before he’d even finished processing the words.

The problem was that somebody else had said those unkind things. Victor, blinded by his own incandescent rage, had struck out at a bystander. The other boy scarpered when he saw an innocent felled. There was outrage throughout the school.

From there, things went wrong in quick succession. Victor was expelled, his parents unsympathetic despite his desperate reasoning. They shopped around for other schools he could go to nearby, and in the meantime, he spent his days roaming the streets, untamed and angry. No school would take him – his grades were low, he was known to talk back, and now the violent incident left a dark stain on his reputation among the local PTA groups. The only answer had been to send him away.

At thirteen, he had arrived in Clayham-on-Sea to live with his grandmother on his dad’s side – a woman full of heart and warmth, if a little ignorant at times. She hadn’t quite understood why her son had brought home a Russian woman when she knew his secondary school sweetheart was still single, but Diane had embraced Alina as a daughter-in-law all the same.

Against this kindness, Victor’s rage seemed to be tempered. He kept his head down, did better in school, and even secured himself a couple of A-Levels. During that time, he’d met Claire in the year below, and the rest was history.

Except, it wasn’t a history Victor had written himself – it was somebody else’s and belonged to them, not him. He had intended to break up with Claire before he finished sixth form so that he could answer some of the questions that had rattled inside of himself for so very long, maybe even moving back home to let that journey unfold around people that had known him since before he’d known himself. But then her mum had died, and there was no good time. He had sat with her as day became night, became weeks of sobbing, became despondency, and although she seemed more capable than before on the surface, the truth was that Claire needed Victor to anchor her. She had told him as much, clutching his hand, whispering in the dark as they lay staring at the fading radioactive glow of the novelty stars that still clung to her bedroom ceiling.

At night, when the guilt finally caught up to him after an argument or a snide comment, he would place the blame squarely at Claire’s feet; had she not emotionally trapped him in this situation, there might not be so much friction expressed as anger. He had hoped – naïvely – that a voice would call out from deep inside himself, telling him to be a man and to leave her. The voice never spoke up, hushed by a louder, more frightening howl warning him of the ramifications of doing so. People would talk, he would have to explain himself, and he wouldn’t have Claire to defend him as he knew she did so very often to her friends and family. The shame would stalk him as it had done all those years earlier.

On that day, the friction had erupted once again into a shouting match – though it was one-sided and even Victor was taken aback by how loudly he’d bellowed; the walls had trembled all round them.

It was a minor slight, a perceived embarrassment that masked his usual frustration. This time, however, he had walked away hoping it would push Claire to end the relationship herself so that he might be free of her. Still, that didn’t alleviate any of the angry, hot feelings that burst forth, erupting from the tiniest crack.

He had stomped furiously past Kristi, out the front door, and some way down the street until he reached the quiet alleyway that ran behind a cluster of houses and their respective gardens. The faintest breeze – a herald of the dark clouds crawling closer – teased an overhanging branch, eavesdropping on Victor, as he slammed his back into the wall.

When he felt like this, Victor could almost hear the billowing fury chattering away around him. Now that he was away from the house and breathing deeply, the sound faded, and he instead tuned into the distant laughter of children in a paddling pool and a bird chirping from a nearby tree. His phone started to sing from his pocket, and he swore under his breath at the missed call. Leaning his head back against the wall, willing himself to be anywhere else, Victor thumbed the screen and listened to the dial tone. It only rang twice before being answered – a new record.

“Victor.”

“Hi, dad,” he replied, solemnly. He hated these calls. His stomach tightened and tensed, involuntarily, and Victor braced himself.

“I tried to call.”

Victor gave himself a second to answer, letting his feelings simmer back down; his father was not someone he was keen to lash out at, and yet the frustration made it all the more difficult to keep himself at bay. He noticed then how clammy the air felt, how tightly it pressed against him.

“Sorry, my phone’s being weird,” he lied. His dad simply replied with a distrustful Hmm.

“Is everything OK?”

“Your mother and I have been talking. Gran’s worried. She says you’ve been going out at all times – and you lost your job.”

“I’m just seeing my friends, dad. And I got a new job. She’s worrying about nothing.”

“Don’t take that tone of voice with me, Victor. You’re not too old or too far away.”

Ice ran under Victor’s skin, and suddenly the day’s warmth had met its match. Mr Granger hadn’t raised his voice or spoken with spite, but it was enough. He could imagine his father’s face on the other side of the phone, stern and stormy behind glasses, staring out from behind the large oak desk that had loomed in his study for Victor’s whole life.

“Sorry. I’ll behave.”

“Good. I don’t want her worrying. Not at her age. How’s Claire?” The question brought with it a change of tone in the same way an afternoon can change when a lingering cloud reveals the sun, and the world is enriched with light and colour. His father liked Claire, and that made Victor’s uncertainty all the more constricting.

“She’s good, thanks.”

“Send our love, won’t you? We’d like to see her again next time we visit.”

“Will do.”

“Anyway, I can tell you’re itching to go,” Mr Granger said, nonchalantly and without any prompt. “Be good.”

“I will,” Victor replied, but the call had already ended.

As he drew the phone away from his ear, Victor caught the tremble in his hand and the frustration began to rise all around him once again. Desperately, he typed out a new message to a contact whose name he had never saved into his phone, and bit his lip re-reading the content.

His thumb hovered over the screen, caught between deletion and admission – an admission of weakness, as he’d promised them both it wouldn’t happen again – and willed someone to make the choice for him. Before he could break any promises, however, he got his wish. The sound of echoing footsteps at the top of the alley took the decision from him, and Victor pressed the screen in surprise, relegating the message to a discarded draft.

At the mouth of the alleyway, the intruder paused. He recognised the silhouette of Envy, her arms folded as she ventured on, veering close to the opposite side to Victor. He grinned in disbelief, though all Envy could see were sharp teeth and a thirst for warfare, a predator haunting her usual shortcut.

Casually, he leaned back against the brick wall and lit a cigarette. Each movement was deliberate, his hands following the choreography in his head. Envy stopped, only continuing once Victor had gestured with his head for her to go past. She took a step forward and Victor could see the streaked eyeshadow and red blotches on her face. He wanted to say something kind – to soften and offer an olive branch – but something crueller had taken up residence under his skin in his frustration, and it wore him like a puppet.

“Did she finally tell you, then?” he asked.

Envy inhaled through her nose, held the breath, rooted herself to the spot, and exhaled deeply and with frustration.

“Tell me what, Victor?”

He licked his teeth, head rolling back up to look at the thickening clouds passing overhead. The cigarette lit up between his lips, leaving a trail of smoke as he dropped his hand back down to his sides. Envy didn’t take her eyes off the far side of the alleyway, narrowing the gap between herself and the exit.

“That she’s not a dyke? I keep telling you, but you don’t listen to me.”

Victor was the most surprised of the two when Envy suddenly launched towards him, pressing her hands against his chest in a poor attempt at shoving him, though her upper body strength didn’t allow it. Besides, he only had the wall to go back into.

Still, Victor was unbalanced for a moment, dropping his cigarette, having to stabilise himself with a palm against the wall. A storm gathered on his face, and he rose up tall, stepping towards Envy. She didn’t budge, though neither of them could decide if it was because of fear or courage.

“Why are you so fucking obsessed with this, Victor? Are you jealous? Or do you have something you’d like to share? You know what they always say about homophobes.”

Envy’s words echoed between the brick surfaces either side of them, scaring off some wood pigeons from one of the nearby gardens. They took flight to watch from the safety of the sky. Envy, however, refused to shrink away, Sabine’s text message burning in her pocket, Claire’s selfishness and stupidity burning in her chest.

“Claire’s the one who told me,” Victor said, quietly and with venom. The sharpness of the words didn’t need anything more to cut through Envy. “She told me all about you sneaking glimpses when she’s getting changed. Watching her when you think she’s asleep. All that weird shit’s gonna get your head kicked in one day.”

He watched with twisted glee as the colour drained from Envy’s face, the nausea dampening any resolve she had managed to build.

“I would never…” she started, but Victor interrupted with a laugh.

“But you have. You’re a dirty fucking pervert who’s trying to prey on my girlfriend,” he spat, face so close to Envy’s that she could feel the smoke on his breath choking her own tastebuds.

“People used to the say the same about you,” Envy said, trembling. She winced, ready for his retribution, but it never came. Victor restrained himself, standing up straight and pulling a fresh cigarette from his coat.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, watching the fear permeate from Envy. The cruel creature beneath his skin was satiated. All that remained was his own guilt and despair. “Go!”

Envy turned and sped down the alleyway, arms clutching each other as if she was hurrying through a tundra despite the humidity; she was shaking all the same.

When his prey was at last out of sight, Victor rifled through his pockets for a lighter. He couldn’t find it, and the rage – only hidden in the shallow depths – built once more.

The lighter was on the floor by the wall where it had fallen from his pocket, bright green plastic lying against the worn tarmac. He retrieved it and tried to spark a flame, but the returning breeze blew it out.

Victor exploded, kicking the wall with palms pressed flat against the sharp brick, a guttural cry breaking free of his chest. It was easy enough to blame his outburst on the flame or the breeze, rather than to acknowledge the cage closing in around him. And so he did, chucking the cheap lighter against the opposite wall and watching the bright plastic splinter. Above him, the sky began to weep for the boy trapped in a history he didn’t write for himself; a history where he played both the hero and the villain.

***

Despite acknowledging the dark clouds blotting out the journey home, the rain that followed was still a surprise. A short shower poured from above, a wet cloth wrung dry from overhead. By the time Envy had made it to her front door – rucksack elevated for shelter – the cloud had emptied and moved on, and the sun was once again flooding the slick pavement. This didn’t help Envy’s mood.

She burst through the front door and immediately charged upstairs.

“Is that you, sweetheart?” her mother called out from the kitchen, seeing her question through even as the footsteps interrupted. There was no answer, and she knew something was wrong. Placing the last plate on the drying rack, Mary MacAvoy wiped her hands on her freshly discarded chequered apron and headed upstairs to comfort her daughter.

At the sound of Envy crying, her heart clenched as it always had done. She felt wounded whenever her daughter did; she felt every hurt just the same. Tapping lightly on the door, Mary awaited a response – a small, choked come in – and let herself into the room.

“Oh, my angel, what’s the matter?”

Mary perched on Envy’s bed, beside her daughter’s sobbing frame. At first, she placed a comforting hand upon Envy’s shoulder. Envy responded by rolling over to face her mother, clutching her favourite teddy bear tightly to her chest – a pale blue, worn out little thing that they’d won for her at a carnival when she was four. It was no surprise to see the cuddly fellow in Envy’s arms, but history told her that a sighting meant Envy’s distress was more complex than a scraped knee or an unkind comment.

Silently, Mary let motherly fingers run through Envy’s wet hair, stroking and parting the strands with gentle comfort. This was Mary’s quiet way of asking her daughter what was wrong without forcing the subject, for fear that she would say nothing at all and retreat into herself, out of Mary’s reach. This meant that she didn’t make a habit of prying, and Envy appreciated the space, providing her mother with candour in return.

Eventually, she calmed, and the crying was replaced by wet sniffs.

“I’m going to be alone forever.”

“Nonsense,” Mary exclaimed, as if taking offence at the statement. “My daughter? Alone? The world would be missing out.”

Envy shifted her body so that she could lie with her head on her mother’s lap. Mary resumed stroking her hair in this new position.

“The girl I had a date with cancelled. And my best friend only cares about herself.”

“Who’s this now? Claire?”

“Yeah,” Envy sniffed again in reply. “She’s not a good friend, mum.”

“I’m afraid I can’t speak one way or another on that,” Mary said, diplomatically, “But it’s important to stand up for yourself. We’ve always been big believers in that, you’re dad and I.”

Envy was suddenly aware of how damp her clothes were, clinging to her skin and soaking into the duvet and her mother’s lap. Mary didn’t move her though, and so she stayed there, soothed by her mother’s love.

“Why did you name me Envy?” she asked, if only to disrupt the silence before it became uncomfortable. There was nothing more on the subject that she wanted to say aloud, and she knew her mother wouldn’t make a move to ask.

“Don’t you like your name?”

“It’s not that. It’s just…it’s not very inconspicuous, is it?”

“Why would you want to be inconspicuous, sweetheart?”

“So that people would leave me alone,” Envy grumbled, unconvinced by her own reasoning that her name was the cause of all her problems.

“Your father and I knew, from the moment you were born, that you didn’t belong here. Not in this boring town. Your destiny is out there in the great wide world. We wanted a way to remind you – and ourselves – of that.”

Envy was both moved and confused by the profoundness of the statement; this had never been mentioned before, though she had also never asked before.

“Why did you think that?”

“Why did we know that?” Mary corrected. She looked wistful then, the hair-stroking movement on autopilot as she stared at the window, where the outside world was still bright as the sky turned from blue to white. The cloud was completely gone now, Envy’s hair and clothes the only evidence that it had ever rained at all.

“Because we didn’t. Your father and I both knew we were different. But there weren’t many opportunities to leave. Not back then. Not for us.”

“And then you had me?”

Mary stopped and looked down, hurt on her face. She let her hands rest on Envy’s shoulder. Envy pushed herself up to sit by her mother.

“We never regretted it. Not even once. But we were given a choice, and we chose you.”

“What if I don’t ever want to leave?” Envy asked, gently, probing for her mother’s reaction. Her feet kicked idly against the bedframe. She was greeted by a warm smile.

“Then you never have to leave. Whatever you choose, wherever you choose to go – and whomever you choose to do it with – we’ll love you no less than we did the day you were born.”

Envy rested her head against Mary’s shoulder, and in return felt her mother’s fingers caress her cheek.

“Thanks, mum.”

There was a pause, where mother and daughter simply enjoyed the moment, the late summer afternoon haze, the proximity to one another, the love – all the love in the world.

“You still didn’t explain where you got Envy from.”

“To be honest, sweetheart, it was a typo. You were meant to be called Evy. Your dad was too excited, and you know what his scribble’s like.”

Envy laughed for the first time in what felt like days, her mother joining in as she went into more detail – about his exhaustion, her fraught trip to the hospital, the confusion on the nurse’s face.

In the face of this moment – mother and daughter laughing over a small anecdote nobody else would ever understand the way they did – the harsh threat of Victor cracked and crumbled into dust. Likewise, the disappointment at Sabine’s treatment of her evaporated like the last drops of rain racing down the windowpane, trying to escape the returned sun.

Soon, Envy would be out of this town, taking this moment with her, a delicate treasure. All the people she worried about would remain behind, trapped and unchanged forever. The thought was as comforting as it was distressing. At least she wouldn’t be one of them.